


Shine Like Starlight

by Nightmist



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Found Family, I love them too much, M/M, Pre-Canon, Temple Knights Era, cat cuddling, good friends are hard to find, holiday nonsense, more hinted at feelings that any real romance, these boys are such soft idiots deep down, very gentle hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: He only began to really understand what he was in for when Alberic cornered him with a brush, gesturing with it menacingly. “Estinien Wyrmblood, you cannot go to a nobleman’s Starlight party looking like you let the rats of the Brume nest in your hair!”A gentle interlude wherein a young Estinien Wyrmblood attends his (only) friend's holiday party and to his shock, does not actually have a completely terrible time.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	Shine Like Starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EggMalaguld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggMalaguld/gifts).



> For KC ♥ -- a prompt that was a wonderful way to break in my mind to the winter celebration feelings.
> 
> (And a gentle thanks to Semilune for graciously letting me borrow the spirit of her holiday Haurchefant, because it was so perfect I could not resist the nod.)

He only began to really understand what he was in for when Alberic cornered him with a brush, gesturing with it menacingly. “Estinien Wyrmblood, you cannot go to a nobleman’s Starlight party looking like you let the rats of the Brume nest in your hair!”

Estinien glares back, trying to intimidate Alberic through force of will alone. (He has no idea why he believes this will work; it did not when he was still a snarling, half—wild orphan, trying to fight the whole world, and… No, wait, he still is. He hides it better though. He thinks.) Alberic gives him a look of such surpassing blandness in return that he almost wonders if that’s where Aymeric learned the expression he makes when he feels Estinien is being particularly foolish.

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Estinien slings himself down into one of the battered old wooden chairs in his quarters, and allows Alberic to brush his hair, pulling half of it up into a neatly wrapped plait. He tries not to feel too much like a chocobo being dressed up in parade armor, and is grateful that at least his foster father gave up on getting him into something other than a pair of trousers, a button down shirt, and a (possibly slightly too tight — he had forgotten how long ago he had bought it, fresh raised to the Temple Knights) blue waistcoat. No stupid ascot or scarf, thank you.

When the older dragoon lets him stand, Estinien dusts himself off and raises his chin. “Can we leave now?” Alberic gives him a long-suffering looking that summons a brief pained twinge in his chest, the weary fondness reminiscent of his mother. This is all Aymeric’s fault, for cheating when he gave vague evasions about his presence at the event and sending Alberic an invite directly. The bastard had cheek. 

❄❄❄❄❄

Aymeric's eyes are even brighter than the stars outside when he throws arms around Estinien in greeting. A warm pink flush diffused over his cheeks suggests he has already been in in the mulled wine or the punch, no doubt contributing to the brilliant, beaming smile on his full lips. Estinien's ribcage tightens, aching painfully, and he tries to chase it back by telling himself it is only his grief for the loss of holidays with his own family.

Surely, that is the only reason he clutches back tightly, pressed to the warmth of the other man's body a second or two too long. Quickly, Estinien steps back, schooling his face into his usual unenthused grumpiness. "Please tell me there's wine and food out already."

"What sort of Starlight party would this be is there were not?" Aymeric claps a good-natured hand on his shoulder, starting to direct him through the halls of the manor towards... Whatever rich people call the rooms they host parties in. Alberic and the Viscountess de Borel, a dignified older woman whose pale hair had gone almost totally gray with age, trail behind them, talking softly. 

Estinien merely grunts. To sound knowing, because in truth, when would he have ever learned what a noble’s party is like? Not as a shepherd boy nor as a trainee nor as a soldier, no matter how effective. Perhaps, in another year or two otherwise, if he can wake the Eye and become Azure Dragoon and pick up the empty mantle…

His train of thought is derailed when Aymeric gently presses a glass into his hands, a warm smile on his plush lips. “A drink. Can I fetch you a plate?” Estinien means to scoff at that too, but then a glance towards the table reveals that between him and it are the entire Fortemps household, bar the Lady who passed away the past summer, and at least two adolescents he’d guess are from House Haillenarte by their coloring. It is, frankly, far more nobles in one room than he prefers.

Sitting down firmly, Estinien wedges himself into the corner of a couch, clutching his mulled wine tightly for reassurance. “I suppose it would be rude not to let you play host.” He mutters in answer, even if just the few months of this new friendship have already shown him that Aymeric has an unerring and oft exasperating knack for discerning the actual meaning behind his words, be they polite or as foul as his worst instincts encourage. A warm hand tugs a lock of his hair before Aymeric heads to the sideboard and for a brief moment, Estinien wonders why his face feels flushed while the rest of him is, to be honest, a bit chilly.

Maybe he should have paid closer attention to Alberic’s clucking about the importance of layering. Awkward and unsure, he rests his hands in his lap, watching as Aymeric is waylaid by the Fortemps boys, the middle one — A Greystone, actually, he remembers now, reminded by his striking silver-blue hair — pulling a sprig of what can only be mistletoe from his pocket and holding it above his head, laying kisses on each of Aymeric’s cheekbones. The boy is shorter than Aymeric but not by much, finishing off an early growth spurt and well on the way to towering over him like the elder brother does. (The youngest hangs back, staring towards the women in the room with a level of obviousness that Estinien can only pray he will grow out of, for his own sake.)

His throat feeling strangely tight, the dragoon turns his eyes away, arguing internally that it’s not like he cares what food Aymeric picks. It’s posh grub, anything should be fine. Peering into the shadows of the curtains, he freezes when the light reflects off something, low to the ground and unexpected, gleaming green. 

For a split second, he tenses, then recognition floods his system as well and without thought, Estinien unfolds himself from his spot, kneeling down a foot or two back from the curtain. He extends one hand and looks away, speaking in a low, calm, soft voice. “Why don’t you come out and say hello, puss?”

In the grand tradition of introverts everywhere, the dragoon is so focused on convincing the cat that he will be its friend that he misses the approach of a second body until a pair of bright blue eyes and a wide smile are directly in front of his own. It’s enough to stop the breath in his chest for a second — the hue is too bright, the hair a shade too dark, for the Greystone boy to truly be what Hamignant would have been but in this moment, with family and holidays and tradition on his mind, the similarities are impossible to miss.

Even the age is right, except that of course, his brother never saw his tenth summer.

Still reeling with the reminder, Estinien does not jerk away or recoil like he might normally, even when the boy — perhaps more properly young man — produces that fucking sprig of mistletoe and lays kisses on each cheek, just as he did with Aymeric earlier. Beaming as he straightens, the merry mischief-maker adds, “The cat’s name is Citrine. She doesn’t like people. But you, well, you look like you needed some cheer.” Leaning in again, deft fingers tuck the bit of flippant greenery into Estinien’s hair, then the troublemaker himself is dancing away, already rooting in his pockets for yet more of the stuff as he closes in on the Haillenarte family.

Everything inside him is churning, unsure if he wants to lash out, sink into despair, give in to nostalgia, and he is jerked from his torments by the cold feel of something pressing to his hand. Eyes flicking down, he finds that, despite the youth’s words, Citrine has emerged to sniff delicately at his fingertips. He must admit, she certainly looks like a noblewoman’s cat, medium length fur of impeccable gloss in palest tan and a tail lifted like a battlefield banner.

After due consideration, she strops herself against the length of his hand, twice, then steps past, off on some feline errand.

This time, he did notice the approach of feet, something in the cadence familiar enough that Aymeric’s quiet voice comes without surprise. “Proving the old folk wisdom that a cat can always scent a kind heart, Estinien?” From him, Estinien knows the jibe is affectionately meant, even if the idea is clearly ridiculous. No doubt why he said it. 

He always thought that was why his mother said it.

Maybe he pauses too long, maybe the strain across his shoulders betrays him, of the faint blanching of his skin. Somehow, mysteriously, Aymeric knows the maelstrom is rising again, and he sets down the plate he had been carrying on a nearby side table, reaching down to pull Estinien back up to his feet. “I realize I am feeling a bit fuzzy-headed. Would you be so kind as to help me out to the garden for a breath of fresh air?”

A lie. But a kindly meant one, he realizes; it is an excuse to step away until he calms himself again, Aymeric knowing him well enough to not ask for a cause. Nodding, he straightens with the dark-haired man’s assistance, meaning to drop his hand as soon as he was upright. Instead, he finds himself clutching on tightly for a second before he overcomes whatever fool instinct motivated him.

❄❄❄❄❄

In short order, Aymeric is opening a glass door to the second-floor courtyard, dipping in the same movement to scoop up Citrine in her attempt to squirm past with practiced familiarity. The resigned way the cat slumps over his arm supporting her suggests a certain ritual to the posture, and Estinien would, if held at lance point, grudgingly admit that there was something charming about Aymeric’s statuesque features lifting to gaze towards the stars as the creature in his arms did the same, ears perked up and forward.

The chill winter air does help calm him though, the bite of wind at his vulnerable ear tips and tugging at loose shoulder-length strands of silver focusing his mind back into the present. A few minutes pass and finally, a softly audible breath slips from him, followed by an uncontrolled shiver. Aymeric turns to him, the color his eyes the same as the stars as they soften. “Do you feel ready to go back inside?”

Estinien considers, then gives a small shake of his head, drawing in more chill. “I… no. I have not been around anyone for the holidays, bar Alberic, for a long time. I did not think it would matter.” It is not a full explanation, but he trusts Aymeric’s easy intuition with him to draw out the rest that is implied in his stark evasion. At least in the dark, other than the glow from the windows, he does not have to see if there is pity in the other man’s gaze.

A second later he goes still in shock as Aymeric presses the cat against him and he instinctively cradles his arms, some old instinct for babies and lambs he had forgotten. Citrine, despite the earlier claim that she did not like people, seems quite happy to nest down into them, starting up a creaky, rumbling purr that ill-befits such an elegant form. He is still blinking when the heavy weight of a fur-trimmed coat settles around his own shoulders.

“Hey!” His voice is a bark that makes the cat stir, but she quickly resettles when Aymeric leans against his back, reaching around to rub Citrine’s ears. “Bloody noble dunderhead, you’re going to freeze. Too delicate to be out here without a proper coat.” (Never mind he has seen Aymeric in the field in mail in far worse conditions, some instincts are too strong to ignore.)

To his — horror? Embarrassment? — Aymeric leans more heavily into him, one hand resting on his shoulder as he keeps stroking the cat. “I can just use you to block the wind.” The idea is preposterous, that he can stay warm enough just leaning in close, and the only rational thing to do is insist they go back in.

Estinien does not insist.

Instead, he finds himself relaxing back into the touch, into not being held, precisely, but something just far enough away from it that he can lower his walls enough to allow himself this small comfort. More than small, as he finds tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. There is none to see them here, though, just a purring cat and Aymeric’s chin resting on his shoulder. 

A little more time, and the cold breeze dries the tears, leaving him with nothing but the strange feeling of contentment settling into his bones, the peace and calm after allowing a little grief to vent and finding a safe place to land. Perhaps it makes him a rude guest, but Estinien can find no desire in him to move away from the gentle warmth and solid presence at his back.

In the end, it is only when Aymeric shifts and a cold cheek brushes past his that he realizes that no matter his friend’s lack of complaints and closeness, he probably would be far more comfortable returning to the matter. The usual gruffness bled from his voice into a gentler grumble perhaps not entirely removed from a feline purr, the dragoon speaks. “Let us return and this time, I can bring you something warm.” A second of hesitation, and softer, almost a whisper. “Thank you.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes tightly before Aymeric steps back, the lights shining from within gilding his form ‘til he glows like a gemstone against the doorway he opens. “Whatever you need, my friend, I will always be there.” His smile is as open and warm as if the sun were rising at this very moment, and Estinien can do naught but follow it, drawn back to cozy cheer and the bones of a new family.

✴

**Author's Note:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> Comments are always treasured and appreciated.


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